“What was the man’s name?” inquired George Ingalls.
“I can’t at this moment recall it. My acquaintance with the man was very slight, and I never knew him very well.”
It may be imagined with what feelings Tom listened to this conversation. He knew very well who this unhappy man was who had perished in the flames. That is he knew him by the name he had mentioned.
Our hero shuddered, and a feeling of awe crept into his mind, as he reflected that within a few hours he had talked with Darius Darke, to whom the gates of a terrible death had now opened.
He stood there, silent and grave, when, unexpectedly, public attention was turned to him.
“This man was seen by at least one who is now present,” continued the squire. “He told me that he had inquired the way to my house of Thomas Thatcher.”
“Did you see him, Tom?” asked a dozen voices at once.
“Yes,” answered Tom. “I talked with him from ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“He gave me a name, but he as much as said that it wasn’t his real name.”